very best dancer in the Harpeth Valley, not excepting Tom Pollard over
at Hillsboro. "But, Tolly, I must give up all thought of social
pleasures for a time." I spoke with a dignified reserve that fitted the
spirit that I ought to have when undertaking a great responsibility,
though I did want to dance. "I have some hard mental work to do."

"Well, blast old Hayesboro for a sad hole! You are going to go in for
brain athletics, Sam Crittenden for farmer heroics, and the only movie
that has peeped into town is going to be closed because it ran a Latin
Quarter film the afternoon the ladies stopped in from the United
Charities sewing circle, expecting a Cuban missionary thriller. I might
as well have my left foot amputated, it itches so for good dancing."
Tolly was so furious that I was positively sorry for him, and to comfort
and calm him I told him all about Peter's letter and the play, and the
way I had to read and criticize and help. He sniffed at the idea of
Peter, but the dramatist impressed him slightly.

"Say, that old boy is the real thing, Betty, child. He's the sure
win-out on Broadway. But how long will it take you to write that play
for your mollycoddle poet? You can get through with it before the
Country Club gets going good, can't you? We've had a new floor in the
dancing-pavilion built, and the directors ordered a foxy music machine
last night."

"Oh yes, I ought to be able to tell Peter all I know in two and a half
months," I answered, ignoring Tolly's disrespect for my poet friend.

"And a lot you don't know," Tolly added, with the candor of real
affection. "I wish Sam, the old calf, could be weaned from his cows and
take the position your dad is offering him at the Phosphate Works, so he